Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E. (The Parazodiac Nexus #1)

21. Running Against Time

21

RUNNING AGAINST TIME

~KIERAN~

P iercing fear has gripped me twice in my life, each instance carved into memory with brutal precision that haunts my darkest dreams and quietest moments.

The first burned deepest – watching her fall as vengeance found its mark through the scope of my rifle.

Those jade eyes that once held such promise, such deception, such calculated manipulation, faded to emptiness as death claimed what remained of her lies.

Her body hit the ground with finality that should have brought satisfaction, should have eased years of torment, yet the lack of regret in her final gaze twisted the blade deeper into my already shattered soul.

No remorse for bonds destroyed.

No acknowledgment of trust betrayed.

No recognition of lives she'd methodically shattered.

She died as she lived – denying me even the smallest comfort of seeing regret cross her features. The woman who'd promised forever, who'd made me believe in second chances, who'd systematically dismantled everything we'd built, refused to grant even that small mercy in her final moments.

The bullet that ended her life should have brought closure. Instead, it sealed away parts of me I thought would never stir again. The alpha who believed in connection, in possibility, in the power of pack bonds – he died alongside her in that rain-soaked field.

The second time fear paralyzed differently – Vale's collapse striking without warning during what should have been routine training. One moment he stood tall, directing operations with characteristic precision, the next his legs simply ceased functioning.

Watching a brother, a friend, a core pillar of our pack's strength crumble as an unnamed disease ravaged his body burned a new kind of terror into my psyche.

Helplessness tastes identical whether facing betrayal or illness – both leaving scars that never truly heal, wounds that reopen with each remembered detail.

The doctors' baffled expressions, the endless tests leading nowhere, the gradual acceptance that we were watching him fade without means to stop it – each memory carries its own special agony.

I never expected to experience such primal terror a third time. Never imagined running through clouds of teal and magenta gas that transform a familiar forest into a surreal battlefield straight from fever dreams.

Couldn’t possibly have prepared for the sight of a slender omega figure igniting every dormant alpha instinct with mere presence.

Her scent hits like a physical force – pure and complex and devastating in its effect on senses I thought permanently deadened. Fire races through my veins, burning away years of carefully maintained control as buried emotions surge back to life with volcanic intensity.

The alpha I believed died with my betrayer claws its way to consciousness, howling recognition of something profound and terrifying in its implications.

Time seems to slow as I process details through instincts screaming for action:

The way her dark green hair catches dim light.

How magenta highlights shift like aurora through the strands.

The grace in her movements even as strength fails.

The determination in her stance as she provides cover for Atlas's retreat.

Each observation feeds the growing inferno in my chest, awakening responses I'd convinced myself would never return. The alpha in me recognizes something vital in her presence – something that transcends logic or reason.

The cruel symmetry of the past repeating itself sends ice through my burning blood. However, where jade eyes once held calculation and malice, this omega radiates an entirely different energy.

Her presence draws our pack together rather than tearing us apart, making this potential loss cut deeper than a mere physical wound.

Atlas cradles her motionless form while blood paints his shirt crimson, the stain spreading with terrifying speed.

Vale's anguished expression from his position across Atlas's shoulders mirrors the agony I feel watching another life slip away – but this time, death claims an innocent. Someone who deserves salvation rather than punishment, protection rather than vengeance.

The gas swirling around us takes on a dreamlike quality as I watch her begin to fall in terrible slow motion. Every enhanced sense captures the perfect clarity of the moment:

The exact shade of ivory green in her eyes as they fix open.

The way her lips part on the final exhale.

How her body goes rigid rather than pliant.

The scent of her blood mixed with gunpowder and fear.

My legs carry me forward as dormant instincts roar to full awakening, demanding action to prevent this third taste of devastating fear from becoming a permanent loss.

The alpha instincts, I thought forever silenced, seem to release their howls with renewed purpose, refusing to watch another death without attempting intervention.

Compared to the past, where this isn't watching deserved vengeance claim its due or witnessing a disease's inexorable march, I realize how such a vibrant possibility is being extinguished before it has a chance to fully ignite.

To have a chance to spread its wings and fly.

The potential pack bond severed before it can properly form.

The distance between us seems infinite though logic says it spans mere yards. My legs pump faster, pushing through swirling gas as her body begins its graceful arc backward. Every alpha instinct screams to move quicker, to defy physics itself if necessary to reach her before impact.

Time crystallizes into perfect clarity as I launch forward, arms outstretched to catch her falling form. The moment stretches like honey dripping from a comb – slow enough to catch every detail yet impossible to alter.

My hands find purpose just before she strikes the earth, cradling her head and shoulders while her knees make brutal impact against the rough woody surface of the earth.

The force rocks through my body, but I maintain my grip as if she's made of precious glass.

Settling her across my lap reveals the devastating truth – her eyes remain open but the light within begins to fade like stars dimming at dawn.

Up close, details assault my enhanced senses with cruel precision:

The exact pattern of freckles across her nose – constellations mapping untold stories. The small scar at the corner of her jaw was a silvered testament to survival. The way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat, each beat growing fainter. How young she looks despite years of evident hardship carved into her features.

Blood soaks through Atlas's shirt where it clings to her side, the stain spreading with terrifying speed across black fabric.

Her body holds unnatural rigidity rather than expected limpness, muscles locked in a position that speaks of something beyond a simple wound.

Was she shot by a mere bullet? Or was it laced with something more to finally take her out?

The scent of her – pure sweetness layered with complexity I can't begin to decode because the brewing fear of losing her – mingles with a copper tang of injury.

Even dying, she calls to something primal in my nature, awakening protective instincts I thought forever buried beneath betrayal's scar tissue.

“C’mon,” I urge desperately as I fight to shake her. “Stay with us," the words scrape raw from my throat as I press a desperate hand against the flowing wound. "You hear me, little one? Stay. We’re going to get you somewhere safe. Mend you up. You’ll never have to return here again, but you can’t fade away. You hear me?"

I don’t know why it sounds like I’m begging her. I can’t even comprehend why tears begin to come to my eyes as if I’ve known this woman my entire life.

My tears for the Omega that shattered my heart weren’t invoked by sadness. It was triggered by the freedom her death seemed to deliver me, despite this marking clinging to my flesh like a haunting wound with no intention of healing.

Atlas's shirt beneath my fingers grows increasingly saturated as I cradle her rigid form.

Realization strikes with brutal force – she's dying despite my desperate attempts at comfort and encouragement. The light in her extraordinary eyes dims with each passing second, pupils fixed and unresponsive.

Panic, unlike anything I've experienced claws up my throat, shredding carefully maintained control.

"ATLAS! DANTE! HELP!" The cry bursts from my chest with primal intensity, echoing through the gas-clouded forest.

Her body temperature drops with terrifying speed, skin grows cold beneath my touch. Questions hammer through my mind with increasing urgency – how long has she been bleeding? When did the bullet find its mark? Why didn't we notice her injury sooner?

The black fabric of Atlas's shirt proves perfect camouflage for spreading crimson stain s . Their focus on escape — survival — to reaching safety blinded them from acknowledging her deteriorating condition. The omega we fought so hard to save was slipping away while we pushed forward, unknowing.

Rage builds in my chest, alpha instincts howling for vengeance against whoever dared harm her. The growl that escapes carries notes of pure anguish – fury at a faceless enemy mixed with devastating grief for failing to protect.

Another call for aid dies in my throat as horrifying awareness strikes. Her chest no longer rises. Those incredible eyes stare upward, lips still parted, but no breath passes between them.

She’s not breathing…

Five eternal seconds tick past as I wait for sign of life – for the smallest inhale or faintest movement. Each moment stretches longer than the last while the terrible truth sinks deeper.

NO.

Not like this.

Not when we just found her.

It suddenly makes me realize that I’m suddenly accepting this Omega and the thought of her being part of our pack despite knowing her. We’re literal strangers, and yet here I am, on the verge of a damn panic attack at the idea of her perishing in my arms.

I realize it’s not because of the lack of knowing who she is, but the realization that thanks to her I’m not mourning the loss of those I’ve cherished and hoped to never see fall at the hands of death.

But at what cost?

To now watch her perish within my arms.

That’s unfair…life is so fucking unfair.

Lowering her to the damp earth with careful precision, training takes over where emotion threatens to paralyze me. My hands find the correct position over her sternum, muscle memory guiding movements as I begin compressions with mechanical efficiency.

You’re not going to die.

Not when you have a fighting chance.

The sound of ribs creaking beneath applied force turns my stomach, but I maintain a steady rhythm. She’s so frail, surely thanks to the stress of recent events and the lack of nutrition, but I can’t lessen the need to give this my all.

Better broken bones than permanent stillness.

Better pain than endless silence.

Between sets of compressions, I seal my mouth over her cold lips, forcing air into unresponsive lungs. The intimacy of the action strikes a discordant note – this isn't how the first kiss should happen.

Isn't how the connection should form.

But desperation drives each motion as I fight to restart vital functions. The urgency matched with the pulsing desire to revive her pushes every thread of instinct in me; my Alpha tendencies in full throttle as I do everything I can to breathe life into her.

Her scent floods my senses with each rescue breath – that impossible sweetness now tainted with copper and fear. The alpha in me rages against fate itself, refusing to accept this ending.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Repeat.

The pattern becomes meditation against encroaching panic. Each press of my hands carries a silent plea, and each shared breath holds a desperate prayer. Time loses meaning as I pour every ounce of strength into keeping death at bay.

Leaves beneath her body grow increasingly sodden with spilled blood. The gas continues dissipating around us, revealing the stark reality of our situation with cruel clarity.

It feels like the world is telling me that this is the ending I’m supposed to witness and endure…

But I cannot stop.

I cannot accept that we saved her from one prison only to lose her to the bullet's brutal finality.

My arms begin to burn from sustained effort, but the pain barely registers. Nothing matters except maintaining rhythm, forcing her heart to beat, and her lungs to fill. The rest of the world fades to background noise as I focus entirely on this vital task.

Live.

Breathe.

Stay with my pack.

Please…stay with me.

Each compression carries command, each rescue breath holds entreaty. The alpha in me pours every ounce of dominance into willing her back from death's threshold. Orders her to fight, to survive, to return from whatever darkness claims her.

I don’t even know what I’m saying between breathing resurrection efforts. Words of encouragement? Pleas begging for her survival so we can get to know each other. Anything that would give her soul the motivation to return to this life that was so beyond cruel to her, just so we can give her a chance at happiness.

At the experience of blissful peace.

Losing her now, after protective instincts just awakened from years of dormancy and the idea of her potentially being an Omega we protect from the system desperate to ruin her, carries the weight of cosmic cruelty.

The universe itself seems to mock second chances, delivering possibility only to snatch it away.

I refuse to yield and stubbornly decline the forced acceptance of this ending. My hands maintain a steady rhythm as if sheer stubbornness can force life back into failing flesh.

Each motion carries pure defiance against fate's apparent decree.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Repeat.

Until she draws breath on her own or my arms give out completely, I will not stop fighting for her survival. The alpha in me recognizes something too precious to surrender without epic battle – even against death itself.

My arms burn with fatigue as hope slips further away with each compression. Despite every ounce of strength poured into CPR, her body remains unresponsive.

Tears blur my vision until I can barely meet those fixed emerald eyes before delivering another rescue breath.

The urge to surrender claws at my resolve as exhaustion sets in. Sobs threaten to break the rhythm of life-saving motions when Dante crashes through the undergrowth, defibrillator clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

He drops beside her still form with practiced urgency while Atlas's hands find my shoulders, pulling me back with unerring accuracy.

"I tried," the words escape in a broken whisper as if confession might somehow alter bitter reality.

My body shakes with suppressed grief, strength finally failing as Atlas's arms tighten around me.

He offers no empty comfort, no false assurances – just solid presence as we're forced to watch Dante work.

The sound of fabric tearing cuts through the night air as he exposes her chest, revealing a magnitude of trauma painted across pale skin.

Scars layer upon scars – some surgical, others born of clear cruelty. Bruises in various stages of healing map a constellation of suffering across her torso.

Each mark tells a story of survival through unimaginable torment, of years spent enduring systematic torture in solitary silence.

Rage ignites in my chest, burning away grief with promise of vengeance. Regardless of the outcome, blood will answer for every scar, every bruise, and every moment of pain inflicted upon her.

This debt will be paid in full, written in the screams of those responsible.

Dante positions the defibrillator pads with methodical precision, his usual swagger replaced by intense focus. The machine's automated countdown pierces tension – three seconds until discharge, warning all to maintain distance.

The shock rocks through her small frame, arching her back off the blood-soaked earth. But those extraordinary eyes remain fixed, chest still refusing to rise with breath.

Dante's jaw clenches as he initiates the second charge, determination warring with growing despair.

Another warning countdown, another violent jolt – yet silence persists where the heartbeat should resume. Dante's gaze finds ours, defeat creeping into his expression despite obvious resistance. I recognize that look from countless battlefields, from too many moments when skill and technology prove insufficient against death's finality.

"Again." Atlas's whisper carries the weight of command, of alpha refusing to accept loss.

"Atl—" Dante's attempted protest dies as Atlas's roar shatters the night's relative quiet.

"AGAIN!"

The sound echoes through gas-thinned air, raw fury, and desperation combined in a single word that vibrates with alpha authority.

Enemy territory no longer matters, stealth becomes irrelevant – nothing exists beyond this moment of desperate attempt to reclaim life from death's grasp.

Dante swallows hard but complies without further argument. His finger finds the activation button as the countdown begins the final attempt.

Each second stretches eternal as we wait for the machine to deliver its charge, for fate to reveal its verdict.

Three.

Two.

One.

The forest holds its breath as electricity arcs through unresponsive flesh one last time.

Time freezes as we wait for signs of life or confirmation of loss. My muscles remain locked in anticipation, my heart thundering against my ribs as seconds stretch eternal.

Her body suddenly arches with violent force, lungs drawing desperate gasps through parted lips that moments ago remained stubbornly still. The sound of air rushing into oxygen-starved tissue carries the sweetest music I've ever heard.

"Fuck," Dante's curse carries pure relief as he launches into action.

Dropping to his knees beside her still-rigid form, he grabs oxygen equipment with practiced efficiency born from too many similar situations. My body moves without conscious thought, breaking free of Atlas's restraining grip to assist in stabilizing her fragile hold on reclaimed life.

Working in seamless tandem born from years of field experience, I help Dante manage the manual breathing bag while he sets up monitoring equipment.

Every motion carries practiced precision despite trembling hands that betray the depth of emotional investment. The temporary nature of these measures burns in the back of my mind – she needs professional care from trusted sources who won't compromise our position or safety.

"I'll carry her while you handle the equipment until we reach the van," my voice carries steady certainty despite internal turmoil threatening to overwhelm careful control. "Then I drive."

Dante's focused silence speaks volumes about calculations running through his tactically oriented mind.

I recognize the intensity of his expression – already identifying which contacts to call, which safe houses offer required medical facilities, and which routes minimize exposure while maximizing the speed of response.

Her body feels impossibly light as I gather her in my arms, cradling her against my chest with a mixture of careful urgency and protective instinct. Each breath she manages sends a wave of relief through my system, while the pulse fluttering beneath my fingers provides precious proof of life reclaimed from death's inexorable grasp.

Rising smoothly to avoid jostling her fragile condition, I adjust her position to maintain a clear airway while protecting the injury site.

The amount of blood soaking Atlas's shirt speaks to the critical nature of her wound – time remains an essential enemy in the race to secure proper treatment.

The distinctive click of safety disengaging freezes us mid-motion, combat instincts screaming alert.

My head snaps toward Atlas, finding him oriented away from us, weapon trained on swirling remnants of colored gas with deadly precision despite his blindness.

Where streams of teal green and magenta cross, creating ethereal symbols in night air that seems to pulse with its own inner light, movement catches enhanced vision. Atlas's command cuts through eerie silence with alpha authority: "Show yourself or die where you stand."

Measured footsteps break the perfect stillness, each impact carrying the weight of approaching revelation. The sound echoes with deliberate precision as if the creator wishes to telegraph the exact position and pace of advance. My arms tighten instinctively around our precious Omega while positioning to shield her from potential threats.

As the figure emerges through dissipating clouds, understanding fails. Reality itself seems to fracture and reform around the impossible truth standing before us. Because there, identical to the wounded omega in my arms in every detail save reversed hair colors, is...Nyx?

The identical face, the same delicate features, the mirror-image build – everything matches perfectly except for hair that flows from magenta roots to green tips rather than the opposite pattern.

Even the small scatter of freckles across the nose bridge appears exactly replicated as if the universe decided to present us with a perfect copy of the woman I cradle against my chest.

My enhanced senses capture every detail of this impossibility:

The same emerald eyes with hints of teal.

Identical height and build suggest shared genetics.

Matching small scar at the corner of the jaw.

Similar grace of movement despite combat-ready stance.

Only the tactical gear she wears and the weapon slung across her back differentiate her from our wounded charge. Where one wears Atlas's blood-soaked shirt, this version stands wrapped in professional military equipment that speaks of extensive training and experience.

The forest holds its breath as we process this revelation, this shattering of expected reality. Because somehow, against all logic and reason, we face a perfect mirror of the omega we just brought back from death's threshold.

Two versions of the same woman – one fighting for each breath in my arms, one standing battle-ready before us. The implications send my mind spinning with possibilities too complex to process in the heat of the moment.

Time seems suspended as we wait for the next development, for an explanation of the impossible sight before us. The gas continues its lazy dance through the night air, creating an ethereal backdrop for a scene that challenges every conception of reality.

“Nyx?” I dare whisper the question, knowing damn well the woman whose a copy of the Omega in my arms is not the owner of such a name.

The woman’s expression stays neutral, but she decides to grace us with her name.

“Jinx,” her voice is firm and unforgiving. “Jinx Blackwood.”